"The Winter Cow" by Troy's Work Table.
Sidewalk chalk wash, sidewalk chalk, chalk pastels, and charcoal pencil on 12" x 12" concrete board.
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"The cow stood to be milked. She had to. / She had to last until May since the milk / was needed." and "The body is a great boat that knows the way / through iced blue distances." —from "The Winter Cow" by Nance Van Winckel, as found in No Starling
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Last night, I was at a literary event—a series of featured readers, followed by an open mic—which was also the three-year anniversary of Creative Colloquy. The first half of the literary celebration (and shenanigans) was guest emceed by Washington State Poet Laureate Tod Marshall. He was giving away prizes to those who correctly answered poetry-related questions he posed.
He asked the audience of about 90 people to name one of the previous Washington State Poet Laureates. I waited a few seconds to see if anyone would raise their hand. No one did, so I raised my hand and answered, "Kathleen Flenniken." Mr. Marshall awarded me a bottle of Lantern Brewing Dubbel ale and a copy of No Starling by Nance Van Winckel for my response.
I started reading as soon as I arrived home.
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There is horror in this poem. The cow that we meet has had her hooves amputated due to extreme cold, and, I would assume, frostbite and gangrene. But she needs to be kept alive until the spring. This is the abject horror of existence in the face of absolute suffering.
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There is also horror in the utilitarian function that the cow serves as she transforms grass and grain into a "white froth" through her digestive processes.
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There is beauty in this poem. The boy that we meet treats the cow with as much tenderness as he can muster in the face of the horror he confronts. He still has to milk the cow, for she serves a purpose, but he can act as a salve to the suffering. There is extra hay fed to her on a couple days each week. The boy tries not to topple the cow as he works.
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I can’t help but think of the Norse creation myth. In this scene of cow and boy, I hear echoes of Auðumbla and Ymir emerging out of the primordial ice.
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Like the poem "Buzkashi," I won't be forgetting this poem any time soon. It is haunting me and I anticipate that it will continue to do so.
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I imagined the cow as a cave painting done by ancient ancestors and then "vandalized" by modern street artists and the geometric shapes of our age.
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